Chapter 4 - The Man Behind the Name
We left Ohio before sunrise.
Not for New York.
Dominic changed the route without explaining why, and six hours later our convoy turned onto a narrow road cutting through snow-covered mountains in western Pennsylvania.
At the end stood a stone house surrounded by acres of forest.
No gates.
No cameras visible.
No staff.
It looked almost normal.
That made me suspicious.
“What is this?”
Dominic opened my door.
“My place.”
“You own a house without armed statues?”
“Try not to sound disappointed.”
My mother was traveling separately with Enzo.
I hated it.
Dominic insisted splitting us made us harder to track.
Part of me understood.
The larger part wanted my mother where I could see her.
Inside, the house was warm and unexpectedly simple.
Books.
Old wood.
A worn leather couch.
Black-and-white photographs.
No gold ceilings.
No men with earpieces.
I looked around.
“You actually live here?”
“Sometimes.”
“What do you do? Hide from yourself?”
He gave me a tired glance.
“Something like that.”
My recovery made everything slow.
Walking from the entryway to the bedroom left me shaking.
Dominic noticed.
Of course he did.
He reached for me.
I stepped away.
“I can do it.”
“You’re about to fall.”
“I’ll fall independently.”
“You’re incredibly stubborn.”
“You married me. This is your administrative problem.”
That almost got a smile.
Almost.
He helped only when my knees finally gave.
His arm went around my waist.
Strong.
Careful.
Not possessive.
That distinction had started to matter.
I hated that too.
Later, I found him in the kitchen making coffee.
“You cook?”
“No.”
“Then why are you in the kitchen?”
“Coffee.”
“That’s not cooking.”
“Exactly.”
I sat slowly.
Pain moved beneath my ribs.
Dominic watched.
“Medication.”
“I hate it.”
“You hate everything.”
“I liked my old life.”
“You complained about it.”
I frowned.
“How do you know?”
He realized too late what he had said.
“You read reports about me.”
“Yes.”
“What did they say?”
“That you worked too much.”
“Accurate.”
“You send money to your mother before paying your own bills.”
“Creepy.”
“You gave free meals to a homeless veteran every Thursday.”
“Very creepy.”
“You punched a man outside the diner.”
“He grabbed a waitress.”
“You broke his nose.”
“Accident.”
Dominic’s mouth moved.
This time it was a smile.
Small.
Real.
It changed his entire face.
For one dangerous second, I understood why women at the gala had watched him.
Then I remembered he had surveilled my life.
The smile disappeared from mine.
“You knew all of that and never spoke to me.”
“I was supposed to make sure you were safe without entering your life.”
“Until I got shot.”
“Yes.”
“And then you married me.”
“Yes.”
“Do you hear how insane this sounds?”
“Frequently.”
I looked at his coffee.
“Was the marriage really necessary?”
He didn’t answer immediately.
“Legally? No.”
That surprised me.
“What?”
“There were other ways to place you under protection.”
I felt anger rise.
“Then why?”
He set his cup down.
“Because Costa’s people understand family.”
“Meaning?”
“If I publicly said I was protecting a waitress, they would assume you were useful.”
“And wife?”
“They would assume touching you meant retaliation against every Costa interest in the city.”
I stared.
“So you turned me into a flag.”
“Yes.”
“That’s horrible.”
“Yes.”
“You keep agreeing with me.”
“I don’t have a defense.”
I stood too quickly.
Pain stabbed my side.
Dominic moved.
I put up a hand.
“No.”
He stopped.
That mattered again.
“I couldn’t consent.”
“I know.”
“You took something personal and used it like a weapon.”
“I know.”
“And if we survive this, I may still annul it.”
His eyes remained on mine.
“I know.”
No threat.
No persuasion.
No cold warning that I belonged to him.
Just acceptance.
It made being angry harder.
I hated him for that too.
That night, snow began falling.
Power flickered once.
Dominic checked every window.
I watched him.
“You expect an attack?”
“I always expect one.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It is.”
“Why do you stay in this life?”
He stood by the fireplace.
“Because leaving doesn’t erase who wants you dead.”
“That’s not an answer.”
He looked at the flames.
“My father believed power made a family safe.”
“Did it?”
“No.”
“What happened to Marco?”
His shoulders tightened.
“My brother became exactly what my father trained him to become.”
“And?”
“He killed someone who didn’t deserve it.”
“Besides my father?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“A sixteen-year-old boy.”
My anger faded slightly.
“Why?”
“Wrong place. Wrong family.”
Dominic’s jaw tightened.
“I testified against Marco privately before the commission that controlled several families.”
“You testified against your own brother?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“He was stripped of protection.”
“And killed.”
“Three weeks later.”
I studied him.
“Your father blamed you.”
“Yes.”
“Did you?”
“For years.”
“Do you still?”
He looked at me.
“Some days.”
For the first time, Dominic Rossi looked less like the terrifying man whispered about in New York and more like someone who had spent his entire adulthood carrying bodies no one else could see.
I understood that feeling more than I wanted to.
My father.
My mother’s illness.
The people I couldn’t save.
The bills I couldn’t pay.
Different worlds.
Same weight.
“You didn’t kill Marco,” I said.
His expression closed.
“Don’t absolve me.”
“I’m not.”
He looked surprised.
“I’m saying responsibility isn’t the same as guilt.”
“And your father?”
That question cut deeper.
“I don’t know yet.”
He nodded once.
Fair.
Around midnight, Enzo arrived.
My mother was safe at another property.
I nearly cried from relief.
Then I saw the envelope in his hand.
“What?”
Dominic took it.
“Internal access logs.”
Enzo closed the door.
“Only six people had the Cleveland location.”
“Names.”
“Me. You. Isabella. Paulie. Luca. Father Anthony.”
I remembered the priest from the ICU.
“The priest?”
“He officiated the hospital ceremony,” Enzo said. “He’s known the family thirty years.”
Dominic flipped through the pages.
“Isabella didn’t know the final route.”
“Correct.”
“Anthony?”
“Knew the hospital extraction route, not Ohio.”
“Then four.”
Enzo nodded.
“You. Me. Paulie. Luca.”
“Who are Paulie and Luca?”
Dominic answered.
“Men I grew up with.”
“Family?”
“Close enough.”
Enzo placed another page on the table.
“Someone accessed the convoy tracker at 3:12 a.m.”
“Which login?”
“That’s the problem.”
Dominic looked up.
“Whose?”
Enzo hesitated.
“Isabella’s.”
Dominic went still.
I laughed softly in disbelief.
“Your mother?”
“No.”
His answer was immediate.
Enzo nodded.
“I agree.”
“Then someone used her credentials.”
“From her house.”
That silenced him.
The room felt colder.
“Who has access?” I asked.
Dominic folded the paper.
“Staff.”
“How many?”
“Twenty-three.”
“Family?”
He looked at Enzo.
Enzo’s expression darkened.
“One person was staying there after the gala.”
“Who?”
Dominic didn’t answer.
Enzo did.
“Dominic’s uncle.”
A car door slammed outside.
Everyone froze.
Dominic reached beneath his jacket.
Footsteps approached the porch.
Three knocks.
Enzo checked the camera on his phone.
Then looked at Dominic.
“It’s Isabella.”
Dominic opened the door.
His mother entered carrying nothing but a purse.
Her face was pale.
“Mother?”
She looked at me.
Then Dominic.
“I know who used my computer.”
Dominic’s voice lowered.
“Who?”
Isabella’s eyes filled with tears.
“Your uncle.”
Dominic exhaled slowly.
But she wasn’t finished.
“He wasn’t stealing information for Victor.”
“What?”
“He was sending it to someone else.”
“Who?”
Isabella reached into her purse and produced a letter.
The paper trembled in her hand.
“I found this behind the desk.”
Dominic took it.
He read the first line.
All color disappeared from his face.
I stood.
“What is it?”
He didn’t respond.
So I took it from him.
The handwriting was unfamiliar.
But the name at the bottom wasn’t.
Daniel Mercer.
My father.
The letter had been written three months before he died.
And addressed to Isabella.
If anything happens to me, do not trust Victor Costa.
But more importantly—
Do not trust Dominic’s father.
Because the ledger does not expose only Costa.
May you like
It exposes the Rossis too.
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